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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882775">Calm Me Down</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimpark/pseuds/nimpark'>nimpark</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Drop The Game [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, But he's trying, Chronic Pain, Disturbing Themes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Joker (DCU) Angst, Joker (DCU) Has Issues, Light Masochism, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Retirement, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, more hurt than comfot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:21:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimpark/pseuds/nimpark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Relapses happen in recovery. Some relapses are hard to recover from. And Joker's episodes are quite unique. Luckily, this time around he has a wealthy support system.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Drop The Game [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Calm Me Down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9xo72zx7P3c">This is the link to the song I used for the title</a> because it kinda reminds me of Joker. Warning: this song reference topics such as self-harm so if you are sensitive to that then I discourage you from listening. Or reading this fic tbh. I've been having a hard time lately with my mental health, so this fic turned out a little more vent-y than I originally planned 😅 Sorry about that!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a bad day. A no good, awful, rotten, disgusting, bland, miserable day. Joker knew it would be from the moments he realized he was conscious. It was a sickening feeling curled up in his stomach like a rattlesnake sunbathing. Resting for now, but always defensive and prepared for an attack.</p><p>He woke up in Bruce’s bed, which happened less often than one might think considering their newfound relationship. He gave Joker his own room in the mansion, in the same wing as Bruce’s, because he felt weird about not giving him any choices. But it didn’t matter anyway now because he woke up in Bruce’s bed.</p><p>His skin was tingling. Which wasn’t different than any other day, but he couldn’t ignore it. The sensation of his own skin cells becoming lifeless and leaving him a corpse of his former self. The twitching and straining of his flesh on these days because he never truly got used to the effects of the acid bath. The ability to heal faster didn’t negate the pain.</p><p>Usually, the pain made him feel alive. But that pain was accompanied by the closeness of his soulmate and witty remarks. This pain was so much deeper. Intrinsically within his genetic makeup, it felt like.</p><p>He was in Bruce’s bed and couldn’t stop staring at his hands. They didn’t look like his own. Joker couldn’t remember what his hands looked like before. They were covered with dark violet gloves, mostly. In fact, a majority of his body was covered with layer after layer of bright colorful clothing.</p><p>The rattlesnake in his stomach shifted and he rushed out of the king-sized bed (nearly tripping over the comforter) to get to the toilet in time. All that came up was bile, which he nearly vomited onto the pretty white tiles of Bruce’s ensuite bathroom. Tiles the same color as his fucking skin, god. How embarrassing.</p><p>In his rush, he didn’t get the chance to shut the door. Or maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he was hoping, praying, for someone to find him like this. To help him.</p><p>Fuck, he needed to get out of this mansion more. It was making him crazy.</p><p>More crazy, that is.</p><p>A hand on his shoulder shocked a scream from him, but it was the sudden onslaught of pain that made him wiggle away from the touch and into the fetal position. How pathetic. He knew who it was; he was still aware of his surroundings despite not feeling like himself. It was only Bruce. Why didn’t he tell Bruce about this? Batman knew how to handle this, not Bruce.</p><p>Joker was slowly breathing his chest hitching when the pain became too great. “Bat… Batsy…” He was whimpering now, staring at his pale legs. He didn’t know if he was wearing clothing or not. Honestly, no part of him wanted to check. It’s not like Bruce would care. Was he still talking? He could hear his voice murmuring in the air, but it was as if he wasn’t conscious of his body at all. He could be reciting every single fucking United States amendment and he would be none the wiser.</p><p>Maybe he should be reciting some sort of text. Amendment. Commandment. Joker always wondered about God. He was never a really religious man. At least, not that he could remember. (What he wanted to remember.) For so long the only person who kept him alive, who made him do the things he did, was the Batman. He supposed if anyone was his God, it would be Batman.</p><p>He giggled. No doubt Batman would punch him if he heard him saying that. Maybe he should fall to his knees and pray to him. Maybe Batman would connect his foot to his cheek, hard. And the pain would blossom so beautifully. Such a nice fuzzy distraction from the mess in his head.</p><p>Looking up, he could see the rim of the toilet seat. There was a splash of his bile on it. He wondered if Batman would make him lick it back up as a punishment for making a mess on his pretty white toilet. For laying on his pretty white tiles. He stared at his own skin. Pure white. It felt like there were pop rocks just above the layer of muscle but under the epidermis. Keeping his laughter in felt like denying himself a sneeze. Who was he to choose when and when not to perform a natural bodily function? He wasn’t God. (He should be though.)</p><p>As he laughed his ass off, he could see the outline of his savior. The only one to absolve his sins.</p><p>“Thank Batman you’re here, Bats,” he snarled. He wanted to rile him up. He needed him to hurt him. “Wouldn’t want you to miss my Grade A pity party.”</p><p>That stoic face remained as neutral as ever. The sunbathing rattlesnake has encountered a foe and was preparing to strike. He felt blinded by anger and need.</p><p>“Not gonna respond, huh?” Shakily, distracted by the stinging of his skin, he used the edge of the toilet seat to carry himself up on two feet. There was a sticky residue on his palm. “Always knew you thought you were better than me. But I know the truth. You hate me because you could be me!”</p><p>Finally, he saw a flicker of emotion through that dark mask. But he didn’t expect it to be hurt.</p><p>“I don’t hate you, Joker. I don’t think I ever really have.” He sighed. “Frustration, yes. Anger, definitely. Confusion, almost always. But I don’t know if true hate ever crossed my mind.”</p><p>Joker scoffed. He didn’t want a conversation. He wanted to antagonize him into giving him what he wants. What he needs. He didn’t need this soft Bruce Wayne attitude. Joker wanted to feel those thick gloves wrap around his neck and squeeze the twisted life out of him. His upper thighs and backside twinged a little in discomfort as he took a step forward. Laughter escaped him.</p><p>“How can you do it, Bats? Stick your dick in a murderer. In a man who’s killed thousands in cold blood. How could you fuck the man who murdered your own son?” Nothing but a clenched jaw.</p><p>Jason didn’t forgive him for what he’d done. Joker never expected him to. But he did use his death to guilt Bruce into giving him things, but Joker suspected that particular trait was going on long before he moved into the manor. Sometimes Jason looked at him like he wanted to grab a crowbar and return the gesture.</p><p>The itchy, painful sting of his skin was getting worse. He needed a different type of pain. Pain he invited himself of his own volition that distracted him from this agony. Batman wasn’t giving it to him. Batman was refusing. Anger clouded his vision and he snarled as he pushed past the large man. He scratched at his forearms as he paced the bedroom.</p><p>Batman was standing in the open doorframe of the bathroom. Staring at him. <em>Mocking</em> him. Joker growled and grabbed the nearest object he could put his hands on-- a lampshade-- and threw it at him. His aim wasn’t perfect and missed his head by a few inches. Fuck he really couldn’t do anything right.</p><p>At some point, he couldn’t even feel his arms moving. He just knew by the crash of glass and the thumps that he was throwing shit around like an angry toddler. How could Batman of all Gods find him appealing in any way?</p><p>His throat burned from vomiting earlier but he was making it worse by screaming.</p><p>Screaming absolutely anything. Obscenities. Promises. Threats. Slurs. The same slurs that were spat at him for the majority of his life. Insults that picked at his identity, his clothing, his hair, his makeup, his choices, his sexuality, his reactions. He was never good enough for anyone. He would never be good enough for anyone, let alone the Batman.</p><p>This breakdown would be called a relapse in medical terms, right? All of those condescending, stupid doctors used that word a lot when he would come back to Arkham. Batman would be sending him back soon, right? He couldn’t just have an unstable murderer in his Bruce Wayne life.</p><p>He looked at his hands. They were stained with red. Had he killed someone? Who was it? Why didn’t Batman stop him? Was it the Batman?</p><p>Joker looked up and gasped as he stared straight into the chest of the Bat Symbol. He wanted to desecrate that symbol and ruin it for anyone else. He needed to get away.</p><p>Like a natural ability, he sought out the shards of glass from the broken lampshade (?) and held it tightly.</p><p>The sharp edge was digging into his skin. He could cry at the relief. Why should he use this on the Batman? He clearly needed the relief from pain more than that freak. Freak.</p><p>“You’re a fucking freak,” Joker muttered. Lightheadedness was beginning to take over. Before he could feel the pressure taking him down, he directed the shard of glass into his own face. Red hot pain erupted on the lower part of his cheek. Ah, blissful pain. Before he could dig the glass deeper into his skin until it pierced through the other end, large hands wrapped around his thin wrists. Effectively stopping him.</p><p>Still, he resisted. It was all a part of the game. He fought back while Batman tried to apprehend him. He would no doubt be sent back to Arkham after this, so what did it even matter if he was a good boy or not? But they had agreed that the game was over. So why was Joker still trying to play? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he be normal?</p><p>He sagged to his knees, arms still being held up by Batman’s grip on his wrists.</p><p>Batman did a quick move, switching both wrists to one hand while he used his now free hand to support Joker’s body. He helped raise him up and walked him out of Bruce Wayne’s bedroom. They walked through the halls together in relative silence and were greeted by Alfred, the butler, when they reached a closed door. He and Batman exchanged meaningful looks that Joker couldn’t decipher. Alfred joined Batman in supporting him.</p><p>The room they took him to was not his own bedroom. It was smaller than the average room in this manor-- two comfortable-looking beds opposite from each other in the room. In the middle were a few cabinets stocked with medical equipment. How long did they walk? Were they still on Bruce’s wing? Joker remembered the bastardized versions of this he and Harley would have in their hideouts. In little metal lunchboxes they would keep bandages, over-the-counter pain meds, and more powerful shit they’d steal from hospitals. A thread and needle were commonplace in their hideouts for the more serious injuries. Did the pain in his cheek count as a serious injury? Joker didn’t know how deeply he cut.</p><p>Were the two men talking to each other? He couldn’t really hear. Alfred was digging through the cabinets. Batman sat next to him while he lay on the bed, holding one of his bloodstained hands firmly. It hurt too much to talk, so he just smiled.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He woke up a few hours later, unaware that he had even passed out. Bruce was still next to him, cowl removed but in his batsuit. Guilt bubbled up in Joker’s chest, but he tried not to let it bother him. He wasn't perfect. He would never be perfect. There was a high probability that he would never be recovered from all of the things wrong with him. He just hoped Bruce understood that and wasn’t gonna kick him out for this episode.</p><p>That’s what his Arkham doctors called it when he would attack other patients. Or refuse to eat. Or curl up in a ball on the slab of cement they called a bed because he couldn’t move without pain. Episodes.</p><p>There was a glass of water on a table near them as well as a bowl of what looked like applesauce. Joker felt high on meds and wondered what fucking horse tranquilizer they gave him. Normal meds hardly penetrated him because his body was capable of making foreign substances unable to work. They must’ve given him some heavy shit.</p><p>Bruce pushed his hair from his forehead. He was staring at him. They stared at each other.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me about your skin, <em>darling</em>.” Shit, Bruce was disappointed in him. He rarely ever used pet names, and never in that tone, unless he was upset. Joker hummed, finding it difficult to talk. Bruce smiled and said, “You talk in your sleep. And you’d bitch when Alfred was wrapping your bandages too loosely.”</p><p>Joker laughed low in his chest. Now that he looked at himself, he saw the bandages on his forearms tightly wound on his skin. His hands were clean and it occurred to him that the blood must’ve come from himself.</p><p>When he reached up to his face, he felt thick padding stuck to his cheek with medical tape. The glass shard. God, he must’ve made a mess in Bruce’s bedroom. Like a spoiled, bratty toddler.</p><p>Bruce pressed his lips to his forehead, increasing the pressure. “I would rather you not be in pain, J. It doesn’t do great things for either of us. Did you know they make creams for that kind of stuff? Skin sensitivity and irritation? We can get you the heavy-duty stuff if you need it.”</p><p>Throat dry, he spoke carefully, “I needed to prioritize. A few bad days weren’t as important as food and electricity after bailing out of Arkham, love.”</p><p>His lover looked pained. He seemed regretful. Joker didn’t like seeing that face. At some point, earlier, he may have wanted to see regret. But not now.</p><p>“I asked Alfred to order some Lidocaine creams to see if that would help. Do you know you’re a difficult bastard to put under anesthesia?”</p><p>Joker laughed again. Half out of relief and half out of necessity. Bruce wasn’t kicking him out. He didn’t feel regretful for taking him in. For agreeing to this retirement plan. They were gonna try again after this. Fix up Bruce’s place and try new things. Maybe Joker could rethink Bruce’s idea of seeing a therapist. (He shot him down immediately, but could you really blame him?)</p><p>Bruce took out his phone-- the latest model-- and put on the show they were currently binge-watching together. Neither of them had much free time in past years to sit down and watch a show. It was actually kind of funny, watching Modern Family when one could argue that their family dynamic couldn’t be more dysfunctional.</p><p>Eventually, Bruce moved to sit next to him in the bed and Joker found himself dozing off on the soft, sculpted body.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I didn't really know what Bruce should do in this fic. I honestly tried to think of things that I would want when I get into this state and that helped move the story along. I hope you enjoyed this piece of angst! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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